Severus Snape: Model Slytherin
by RussianDestruction
Summary: The mistress of the wardrobe had looked him up and down like he was an edible, black-haired lolly. Something about his arse being able to support a quarter. Or fight a quarter. Or something.


**A/N: This is just a silly one shot I jotted down while I was stuck listening to an incompetent teacher drone on and on in class. I hope you all like it! I don't own JKR or anything in the Harry Potter universe, including Snape (unfortunately). Cheers!**

It was just a normal day for Snape. Sun blazing down on Diagon Alley as he walked through to do a bit of shopping? Check. Snot-nosed little children bopping about behind their parents like trailing baby ducks? Check. Mixed scent of parchment, potions ingredients, and ink as he passed Squiggles and Things? Check. Dandelions taking over the tiny scrap of lawn in front of Miss Gillycuddy's Lingerie Shop (tastefully window-less)? Check.

Wait. Miss Gillycuddy's Lingerie Shop? When did _that _open? He was tempted to go inside. Just out of academic interest. He'd often wondered what he'd look like in pantyhose. Although lately he'd been wearing things that were never meant for a 6'4" male. Pantyhose probably wasn't that far off.

He shuddered. He had thought he'd blocked the worst memories, but they came flooding back at the sight of the new establishment.

The pink blazer had been the worst. They hadn't even let him wear a shirt underneath, and his chest hair had peeked out from between the lapels like an inquisitive furry caterpillar. Apparently, women found that sexy. He snorted. That only meant they all needed to have their heads checked.

His mind wandered to the skinny jeans. Just thinking about those made his balls twitch in fear. He wanted to pat them to reassure them of their safety, but refrained. He was in public, after all. The appeal of the slim torture devices escaped him. They were restricting and blasted uncomfortable.

Never mind that the mistress of the wardrobe on that last occasion had looked him up and down like he was an edible, black-haired lolly, and leered. Yes, leered. Something about his arse being able to support a quarter. Or fight a quarter. Or maybe bounce a quarter? Or something equally ridiculous. He had been so busy trying to back away from her that he didn't quite remember the words.

Anyway. The skinnies had been a hit with everyone, though not with his genitals. This had also been a source of amusement for the wardrobe chit, who had remarked on the lack of length in the inseam, all while smirking. Just thinking about it was enough to make him blush.

Oh yes. Gone were the nightmares of the Dark Fool, with his slitted eyes, flaky complexion, and inexplicably absent nose. In their place were terrifying scenes of blinding lights, glitter that tried to asphyxiate him, overly pungent cosmetics, and loud, recurrent clicking. Not to mention jeans that made a famine victim look over nourished and Necco colored outer garments. He never failed to wake in a cold sweat, with an overpowering desire to rush to Hot Topic for a shopping spree.

Yes, Hot Topic. Black, black, and more black. Blessed, safe black. And spikes. And freaky little skull paraphernalia, for old time's sake. That was much more his style. He knew it was cliched, but he just couldn't help himself.

Black meant intimidation. It was his comfort zone. Not damn snake pants and fruit loop coats.

He sighed. He knew he had brought it on himself. But that thought was small comfort as a large herd of loudly squealing young women burst around the corner and streaked towards him. He veered to the left to try and avoid them, but was unsuccessful. (It had worked in Star Wars! It was worth a try!) Before he knew it, he found himself blinking owlishly into multiple flashing lights, his ears assaulted with cries of, "No, I want a picture with him, move _over!_" and "Hold my bag while I pose with him, will you?"

In a flash, two silly looking girls with faces altogether too chipper for his tastes were nested under his arms, grinning for the cameras despite the fact that he remained in place with all the enthusiasm of a Josef Mengele patient.

He zoned out, just like he used to do during Voldemort's monthly Evil Free-For-All. (Five Crucio-less days guaranteed if he could invent a potion that caused death by polka dots; ten days exempt from Evil Overlord Meetings if he beat the Dark Fool at Scrabble.) Like those dark days, this would all be over soon. As soon as the shrieking girls got their pictures, they would grow bored and move on to other pursuits.

He hadn't realized things would be quite so crazy. After the war, his obscenely long hospital stay, and months of speech therapy, (during which he tried to sneer at the doctors and all that came out was pathetic, slobbery blubbering), he had gone away for a while. To Europe. The Wizarding Quarter in Naples, Italy, to be exact. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had needed a break. Being a spy for a grungy, ragtag madman and a possibly perverted dessert addict had very nearly pushed him to the verge of a nervous breakdown. And then, of course, there was the almost getting killed thing. He hadn't had much money––they had slapped him with an Order of Merlin, First Class, but that was about it––and, well, he hadn't been in a position to decline when a strange, rather portly man had asked him if he would like to do some modeling.

Modeling! He, Professor Severus Snape, former feared Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, modeling! He had initially snickered and pushed his way past the man, temporarily tempted to sneak into his mind and see what other sorts of insane thoughts were running through the man's head. He had determined that was a useless waste of magic, however, and merely swept past the man (he wasn't sure how he was still able to sweep about without his long black cloak, but, well, he was)!

The little man, who had a graying, balding pate, horn-rimmed spectacles, and suspiciously fruity breath, had grabbed Snape's sleeve––something that would have earned a British wizard a wand in the neck––and proceeded to sales pitch him about the joys of modeling, frequently repeating something about his so-called latent ability and "look".

Not understanding what the "look" was, Severus had turned on the full force of the "Longbottom, you're as useful as fertility injections to a Weasley!" glare, figuring that had to be good for the occasion, when the pesky stalker, far from being intimidated, had squealed with delight, and actually clapped!

"Yes!" he had cried, tapping his feet, then finally bouncing up and down, unable to contain his glee. "Yes! That look––so smoldering, so sexy––it'll sell, all right!"

At that, Snape had stopped dead in his tracks, turning and focusing his full attention on the Caucasian Oompa Loompa. He took in the plump tummy struggling to escape from the grotty button-down, the ill-fitting trousers, and the scuffed shoes, and shook his head. He certainly may not have known much about modeling, but he didn't think this was how agents for such a thing dressed, and he told the man as much, sneering for good measure.

"Yes, well, I'm not on duty right now, am I?" When the alleged scout got excited and tried to use longer sentences, his English broke down and Snape had to listen hard to understand. "Was just on the way home from completing some extra work at the office, not scouting, you understand, and I couldn't _not _approach you. You're too perfect!"

And that was how he had met the man who was to make him a very wealthy Englishman indeed.

Signor Leopold, who was very much a legitimate scout, despite his rather unkempt appearance, had taken him to a salon the very next day. Severus had muttered in disgust when his hair was scrubbed, complaining that they were going to rub all the black out; cringed when they told him to take off his shirt so they could examine the state of his back hair (or lack thereof, much to their relief); and snarled when the giggly Asian technician groomed his eyebrows, but he had positively drawn the line when they told him to drop trou. It had taken the entire team of five beauticians to tie him down with both physical and magical restraints and trim the errant portions of his pubes. He hadn't thought anything could hurt worse than Voldemort's tortures, but he had been wrong. When they had taken the wax to his balls, he had howled obscenities, threatening to murder all of them. They hadn't seemed very afraid, which, when he thought about it, probably had something to do with the fact that he had been splayed half naked, whining and crying like a baby.

Still, though. It was a shock to him that anyone could ever find him anything other than intimidating. No matter the circumstances.

His very first shoot had been a week later. He had been taken to a deserted back alley behind some godforsaken looking restaurant, which might have passed for a quaint hole in the wall on a good day, and an insect-infested haven of demonic possession on a bad, and told to lean up against the wall. Feeling like a halfwit, he had obeyed, trying to ignore the odd feeling of his newly conditioned hair blowing in the breeze. It felt as light as a feather. _He _felt as light as a feather. Except for his leather motorcycle boots. Those were heavy. Why had they paired such boots with a pinstripe suit? Especially a skintight pinstripe suit with little bows on the wrists? It didn't make sense to him, but then, Snape thought, they were the experts. Not him.

It turned out he didn't have to do much. His tactic was simply to glare at the photographers as though they were Hermione Granger trying to shrink him out of his depression. Invariably, the shutterbugs nearly swooned with delight, clicking away madly, and shouting encouragement like, "Oh yeah, that's hot"; "Hold that look, honey"; and, his personal favorite, "Sex on a stick, baby!"

What did that even mean? Honestly. How did one get sex on a stick? The very mechanics of it made his head spin, and he found he couldn't think about it too much or he'd get a headache.

At least no one was calling out such oddities now. In fact, the girls had already started to disappear, and he took a deep breath, realizing that he was out of the woods for the moment. At least, until the next group of hormone-riddled youngsters spotted him. Shaking his head, he headed in the direction of Pelascus' Printing. He couldn't even pick up prints of his latest head shots for his modeling book in peace.

He thought sagely to himself that one could not be famous and, purportedly, sex on a stick, without encountering some inconveniences.

Looking up upon leaving the store, his eyes fell upon his latest billboard, and his lip curled up into a semblance of a smile as he leered at himself.

_Well, that's not too bad_, he smirked. In this particular photo, which was an ad for some sort of razor which he didn't much care about, but which he had been instructed to act as though he adored, he was stroking his oh-so-soft chin and jawline, smoldering out at his female fan base with his very best I am the Bat of the Dungeons and You had Better Not Mess With Me face. Blessedly, he was clad in a simple white tee shirt. The only thing remotely out of the ordinary about it was that it had a v neck, which allowed some of his furry chest hair to poke out. He didn't mind that, though. Apparently, that was sexy too. Hmph.

All in all, Snape was happy with his life now. It was nice not to be treated as though you had a permanent, highly contagious case of dragon pox. He had also found that he liked trimmed eyebrows and balls as soft as a baby's behind, and while he disliked being called sex on a stick, he was enjoying _being _sex on a stick.

Humming to himself, (in the interests of maintaining his forbidding demeanor, which he was clinging to despite its proven ineffectiveness, his choice of song was a funeral dirge), Snape made his way down the street to his next destination, dodging errant fan girls along the way.

_Severus Snape, you model Slytherin you_, he snickered to himself.


End file.
